Defining the Obscure
by AnneRQi
Summary: A drabble series of Harry Potter scenes and plot bunnies. What fun!
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

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The strong and robust figure in the doorway cast a long shadow into the room; the light shone from behind him, leaving him naught but a shadow at the entrance. He was a shadow casting a shadow. It left Harry with the feeling that the man at his door – strong and healthy, a solid form of bone and muscle – was just as intangible and formless and vulnerable as the hopes and dreams Harry once held onto in the darkness of his cupboard. Hopes and dreams that had been repeatedly dashed and broken and shattered that nothing but the invisible scars of trying to keep them together remained as evidence that even Harry had been a child at some point in his life.

The figure took a step forward, solidifying and becoming more real as the light fell more readily upon his features and form. Harry could not contain his flinch at the realization that those dark, dark, _dark_ eyes had been perusing his own broken form and pitiable surroundings. He regretted it when those normally apathetic eyes flickered up from his numerous injuries to his eyes and _blazed_.

"Well, it seems the accounts of your luxury and pampered childhood were fallacious, falsehoods that did nothing but harm you and your reputation," the figure said, his normally monotone voice smooth and full of emotional nuances.

Harry swallowed.

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A/N: This is the start of a series of random drabbles that may or may not be connected. I may decide to expand on the ones I like at a later time. This is really just a way for me to practice my GRE vocabulary, to be honest.

Formerly, .flower1


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own HP.

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"It's not what it looks like!" Harry would have smacked himself if he had the strength. Really, what was he thinking? 'It's not what it looks like'? What does that even mean? The blood loss and head trauma must have rendered him mentally deficient, or something. The sneer on his visitor's face seemed to echo his thoughts.

"I will give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you are speaking nonsense as a result of some sort of head injury rather than attributing to your utter lack of functioning brain cells," the cold man drawled as he finally deigned to fully walk into the filthy room and kneel at Harry's side. "I hope that you know better than to try and excuse your current condition with some mendacious story…especially not one that begins with a statement as flimsy as 'It's not what it looks like'."

"Hah, and all it took for you to give me the benefit of the doubt was to witness the Boy-Who-Lived in his natural habitat," Harry slurred, suddenly exhausted beyond measure.

His guest remained silent.

"Hey, what brought you to my hummel amode in the first place?"

Silence, before finally, "Call it intuition. And it's humble abode. Say it, Potter."

"Yeah, what I said. Humbode."

Reality seemed to slip for a moment, before a sharp "Potter!" brought everything into focus once more, including the pain. Harry mumbled, and even he was not sure of what he said.

"Potter, stay awake! Keep talking if you must, and I will even try to decipher the verbal mess you are spewing," was the last thing Harry heard before reality fell apart once more into a blur of colors and sensation.

Well, actually, the last thing he heard was a curse from the normally implacable and refined persona of his visitor. It was almost enough to startle Harry back into awareness. Almost.


	3. Chapter 3

I do not own.

A/N: This is not necessarily related to the previous two drabbles, but you could look at it as preceding the first chapter.

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For the first time in forever, he could not wait until the Express reached the station. Normally, he would be dreading the start of summer vacation, marked by his return to Privet Drive. However, on this day, he would not be meeting his _loving_ relatives but would instead be on his wait to circumnavigating the world…well, it would be more accurate to say that he would be traveling Europe and Asia, but close enough. He needed more space and privacy – anonymity – than Privet Drive could offer to fully grieve and mourn for Sirius.

_Sirius._ The wave of emotion threatened his control, but he quickly pushed it back. 'Later. I can mourn and cry and scream in private. Not here, not now,' Harry told himself, glancing around the crowded compartment to seemingly involved in their own conversations. However, they each had their tells that betrayed them; their attention was fully on Harry.

The tip of Ron's ears blushed red even as he maintained unwavering eye contact with Neville while Hermione would occasionally glance at Harry before forcing her worried gaze away. Ginny fiddled with her hair trying to disguise the direction of her gaze, Neville periodically stammered, and Luna – quirky, understanding, blessed Luna – simply read the Quibbler upside down, glancing up at Harry without guile.

The final obstacle standing in his way would be his friends and various well-meaning citizens in the form of the Order members who are expecting to see him depart with his relatives.

It was a tiny, small obstacle. He could easily find his way around it. He'd equivocate and find some way to circumvent their well-meaning efforts at protecting him. He would just have to be a bit….circuitous in his language and in the route he would take. That's all.

He felt the train slow to a stop and could not help the uncharacteristic grin that blossomed on his face for a moment at the taste of freedom.

Then he stepped past the barrier separating the Muggle and Magical components of King's Cross Station and met the livid gaze of his uncle. Harry paled as Uncle Vernon stomped toward him, his mutterings and derogatory comments toward "freaks" louder as he neared. Harry could sense his hopes, plans, and that illusion of freedom cracking with each step his uncle took before shattering as his uncle roughly grabbed his upper arm and started dragging him away.

Dread and fear overwhelmed him as he registered his Uncle's curses. "…those God-damned freaks think they can tell me what to do?! Hmph, and that freak! Getting our hopes up for nothing! Just wait until we get home…"

Damn it. And he was so close, too.


	4. Chapter 4

Nope, not mine.

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Once more, his thoughts returned to Harry Potter. He could not help but recall the way his eyes – a green beyond definition and human description, beyond any known language – blazed with defiance and rage. His mind strayed to the thought of his dark, messy hair: what did it feel like? What it coarse or soft or greasy? What would it feel like to run his hands through that mess? And his lips, thin but pink and delectable! His body was a bit scrawny and thin, but the boy's petite stature appealed to him. He imagined the sense of power and dominance he would feel at having Potter under him, cowering under the full extent of his might. Or no, intimidated and cowed, yes, but not cowering. Potter was not some weak, mindless, craven fool; he would fear but he would still fight. After all, part of Potter's appeal is his fire.

But no! What was he thinking? This is Potter, the bane of his existence, the prophesied man-child who would defeat him, the so-called savior. Moreover, even if Potter weren't those things, he is still a 16-year-old child! Despite all of his depravity, sadism, and lack of morality, Lord Voldemort was no pedophile.

These feelings and fantasies were aberrations. The last time he lusted was in 1958, when he was nearing his thirties. And even then, he had only preferred women rather than men. Although…he could see the appeal of dominating a man…

Voldemort growled and shook those thoughts away. He stood from his armchair situated before the fireplace and strode out the room.

He _really_ needed to torture something. Preferably something with black hair and green eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

Don't own

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It was approaching 2:30 AM and the corridors were empty and silent. All were either preparing for bed or already in bed by this point. All, except for the mice, house-elves, and one eleven-year-old Harry Potter.

Harry poked his head around the corner, glancing back and forth before he slowly eased himself into the right-hand corridor, clinging to the wall despite the fact that he had his invisibility cloak on. After all, if Professor Dumbledore could see through it, how reliable was the thing anyway?

He tip-toed down the hall, trying not to trip on the long fabric of his cloak while simultaneously clinging to the wall.

Yes, he looked ridiculous, he knew. But he was on an important mission and he had no choice but to sacrifice his dignity if he wished to accomplish his Secret Operation.

What was this Secret Operation, you ask?

Why, he was on his way to Step 1 of Secret Operation 1: The Conquering of Hogwarts (the COG for short)! Step 1 consisted of gaining allies in the suits of armor, Peeves, and – wait for it – the Gargoyle! The Gargoyle was the Ace of Step 1. If he could get the Gargoyle, then the rest of Secret Operation 1 would go more smoothly.

He had already obtained the loyalty of the Knights – as the suits of armor preferred to be called – and Peeves. Now he just needed to Gargoyle. To which (whom? Was the Gargoyle sentient?) he was on his way. Ninja style.

And Secret Operation 1? Why, that was just the first step of his overarching goal: to be the best Dark Lord that the world had ever seen.

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Are there any prompts, any particular pairing or scene people want to see?


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